The Singing Tree

by Anne Weale

  ‘It’s beautiful. Is it Russian?’ For the first time she met his eyes.

  ‘That’s clever of you...yes, it is. It’s supposed to have been given to one of my ancestors by Catherine the Great, but I’m inclined to doubt that story. How did you know where it came from?’

  ‘By the malachite and the design. I think it’s the singing tree, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of the singing tree. Tell me about it.’

  ‘Not now. It’s time we were off,’ said Abel. ‘Where’s that American got to? I hope she’s not going to keep us waiting.’

  ‘Will you put it on for me, please?’ Flower handed the jewel to Roderick and turned her back.

  He lifted it over her head and the smooth gold back of the pendant struck her lightly at the base of the throat before sliding down inside the V-neckline of her dress to lie between her breasts. It felt cold against her skin. She fished it out, conscious of Roderick’s fingers brushing the nape of her neck.

  The thought that in a few hours’ time he would unfasten the clasp and remove not only the pendant but everything else she was wearing sent a tingle shivering down her spine. She didn’t think he would wait until tonight to make love to her. Possibly it would happen as soon as they reached her flat, where they were spending one night before flying to the Caribbean for two weeks in the sun.

  Would it be the ecstatic experience she longed for, the redeeming feature of a marriage lacking all the other harmonies which should exist between a husband and wife?

  The fear that it might prove disappointing made her very nervous. If their sexual relationship was no good, their marriage was doomed from the beginning.

  In the car he sat in front with the chauffeur and she in the back with her grandfather, fingering the pendant and thinking about the singing tree which, according to an old Russian folk tale, grew on an island in the middle of a huge lake. Anyone who discovered it would find everything they had ever wanted near it.

  Had Roderick known the significance of the design, and had he been in love with her, the pendant would have been a perfect wedding present.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Stephen and Sharon, as their witnesses, were waiting for them at the register office. In spite of Flower’s injunction not to dress up too much, her sister-in-law was wearing a glittery knitted dress under a shadow-dyed fox jacket and a white felt fez with a big gold tassel bobbing above her left ear.

  Roderick introduced them to Kim, who was wearing another neat classic silk dress, or the material might have been a crease-proof synthetic. But, whatever it was, she had the impeccable grooming, the band-box look for which American women were famous.

  A vase of carnations stood on the registrar’s desk, but otherwise his room, with its cream-painted walls and mottled vinyl floor-tiles, was as soulless as most local government offices.

  Her throat thick with sudden tears, Flower listened to Roderick saying briskly, ‘I do solemnly declare that I know not of any lawful impediment why I Roderick Charles Paget Anstruther may not be joined in matrimony to Flower Jane Dursley. I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, Roderick Charles Paget Anstruther, do take thee, Flower Jane Dursley, to be my lawful wedded wife.’

  Then it was her turn to say the words, after which Roderick produced the wedding ring.

  She had forgotten to transfer her engagement ring to her other hand. Without giving her a chance to remedy the oversight, he slipped the plain gold ring on her finger above the Anstruther emerald so that, before the day was out, she would have to take them off and exchange them.

  Fortunately she wasn’t superstitious, but Sharon was. Flower heard the other girl’s indrawn gasp of dismay as she saw what had happened. From now on Sharon would be convinced their marriage wouldn’t prosper. And perhaps she would be right, although not for that reason.

  For the last time Flower signed her maiden name. The registrar offered them his congratulations and good wishes. The others, including Kim, hugged and kissed her and, predictably, Sharon giggled and asked, ‘How does it feel to be Lady Anstruther?’

  Flower responded with an embarrassed smile. She felt like weeping.

  Perhaps to a couple in love this short down-to-earth form of marriage was as memorable as any other. But to her it had emphasised the businesslike nature of the bond they had made.

  On the way back to the manor her grandfather and Kim went in Stephen’s car, leaving the back of the Rolls-Royce to the bride and groom.

  ‘I like your dress,’ said Roderick.

  ‘Thank you.’

  To her surprise, he took her right hand in his and raised it to his lips for a quick light kiss.

  ‘You were nervous, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘Weren’t you...inwardly?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  He continued to hold her hand loosely, stroking the side of her forefinger with his thumb. She suspected that, instead of having lunch at the manor, he would have preferred to drive directly to London.

  In some ways she would have preferred that arrangement herself. She wasn’t hungry and a wedding breakfast for only six people promised to be heavy going. What was there to talk about?

  Watson had champagne waiting for them. As he offered the tray to the bridal couple he made a brief speech of congratulation on behalf of the staff.

  Two hours later, when it was time to leave in the Ferrari, Flower realised she had not eaten enough to counterbalance the effect of four or five glasses of champagne.

  Not wanting to draw attention to the fact that her secret stresses had made her drink more than was wise when she had no appetite, she climbed into the passenger-seat, prepared to make a joking remark about male prerogatives if Roderick showed surprise.

  He, she felt sure, was totally clear-headed. Not only was he more accustomed to alcohol, but he had done full justice to the luncheon she had ordered. She had watched him enjoying the meal and making himself pleasant to his new in-laws while she’d pushed the food round her plate and hoped the wine would make her cheerful and carefree.

  To some extent it had. But it had also made her slightly woozy, and she knew she lacked the concentration to drive a fast car on the motorway.

  For the first half-hour of the journey they listened to music on the radio and exchanged few remarks.

  Then, nearing a service area, he moved from the outer lane to the inner lane and, at the slip road, turned off. Having parked, he surprised her by producing a vacuum flask.

  ‘I asked Watson to lay on tea and biscuits. I suspect you didn’t have a decent breakfast and you ate like a bird at lunch,’ he said.

  The weak tea she had at home—in the motorway cafeteria it would have been a strong brown brew— accompanied by a plain biscuit was precisely what Flower had been longing for.

  She had begun to have a headache. Not a bad one. A slight dull ache in her temples.

  Roderick seemed to know about that, too. As she was sipping the tea he dropped two tablets on to her lap.

  ‘How did you know I had a headache?’ she asked.

  ‘A poor night’s sleep...tension...alcohol. It was inevitable,’ he said drily.

  She made no comment on his assumption that she hadn’t slept well. He was right. Had he slept soundly? she wondered.

  After two cups of tea and several biscuits she began to feel better. Or was it his thoughtful kindness which had wrought the cure? By the time they were on the outskirts of London the headache had gone.

  However, as they crossed the Thames the tension returned. Her insides began to knot with mingled apprehension and excitement. Out of the corner of her eye she watched the economical movements with which he controlled the powerful car. Was he equally adept at making love? Or were all the dreams of tenderness and passion she had woven round Piers Anstruther about to be shattered by the flesh and blood man who was so extraordinarily like him?

  Very soon they were gliding down the ramp to the basement garage where each apartment had a num
bered parking space. For security reasons there was no lift service between the basement and the flats. Everyone entering the garage had to use the stairs to the ground floor, which was under round-the-clock surveillance by a hall porter.

  Flower was on friendly terms with the two retired policemen who performed this duty. One of them was a voracious reader and she supplied him with many of the paperbacks he devoured while on night duty. She knew the names of all their grandchildren and was shown the latest photographs of them.

  ‘Hello, Miss Dursley: Nice dry weather you’ve brought with you this time,’ said Mr Taylor, the day porter, as she and Roderick walked through the lobby.

  She smiled and nodded. ‘But I’m not Miss Dursley any more, Mr Taylor. This is my husband. We were married this morning.’

  ‘You don’t say? That is a surprise. Mrs Brewer—’ referring to her cleaner—’didn’t let on you were getting married, miss...madam, I should say.’

  ‘She doesn’t know yet. We wanted to keep it very quiet. We’re just here for one night before going on our honeymoon.’

  ‘Well, congratulations, sir. You don’t need me to tell you that your wife is one of the nicest young ladies it’s ever been my pleasure to meet,’ said the porter.

  ‘Thank you. I agree,’ Roderick said smoothly.

  Mr Taylor opened the book in which incoming messages and special arrangements were noted. ‘What is the name, sir?’

  Roderick produced a card and laid it on the desk. Then, a hand under Flower’s elbow, he steered her to the lift, which was being vacated by a couple coming down from an upper floor.

  Her suitcase, containing her small sun-and-sea trousseau, was still in the car, as was his case. All he was carrying was a small leather pack which presumably contained his shaving gear. Evidently he didn’t expect to need pyjamas or a dressing-gown tonight. Her night-clothes, and fresh underthings to put on tomorrow, were already in the flat, left there on her previous visit.

  A covert glance at her watch showed that it was now half-past five. They had booked a table for eight at a very good Italian restaurant a few minutes’ walk from the apartments. They had two and a half hours to fill before going out to dine, and clearly they weren’t going to fill it by making conversation or watching television.

  Had they been normal newly-weds, leaping straight into bed would have been natural and easy. In the circumstances she found the situation fraught with awkwardness, and now regretted her refusal to let him make love to her during their engagement.

  Roderick, however, seemed wholly at ease as he unlocked the door with the key she had had cut for him, and followed her through the small hall and into the sitting-room.

  But it was different for him. Presumably he was accustomed to going to bed with women he desired but did not love. If she proved a disappointing partner, the let-down would not be as total for him as for her. As time went on he would undoubtedly stray. He had not promised her fidelity, either formally at their wedding or privately. But for her, as long as she cared for him, there could be no other lovers. She would have to accept and live with her blighted hopes.

  ‘I’ll have a shower,’ he said casually, loosening his tie.

  ‘Of course. The bathroom adjoining my bedroom... our bedroom doesn’t have a shower fixture, but the other bathroom does. I’ll show you where it is.’

  She led the way to the visitors’ room, decorated in spring-green and white.

  Glancing at the two single beds with their white cane headboards and tailored green linen covers, he asked, ‘Are there twin beds in our room?’

  ‘No, a double.’

  She wondered if he took it for granted that he was not the first man to stay at the flat overnight. He had never asked about her past. Perhaps he didn’t care what she had done, or not done, before he’d entered her life.

  The towels for her visitors’ use were stacked on white open shelves alongside the hand-basin counter. She took down a large green bath sheet and a small towel and hung them on the rail within reach of the shower compartment.

  ‘I’ll leave you to choose your soap. There are some unscented tablets,’ she said, indicating a wicker basket containing an assortment of soaps from several countries.

  ‘How about joining me?’ he suggested, standing in the doorway in his shirt-sleeves—he must have discarded his coat as they’d come through the bedroom—and beginning to unbutton his cuffs.

  ‘I—er—don’t want to get my hair wet,’ she answered, beginning to blush. ‘I only use the shower when I shampoo. Otherwise I have baths. I’m afraid it isn’t the kind of bath which people can share,’ she added, striving to sound more self-possessed than she felt.

  ‘Mm... pity.’ He remained on the threshold, blocking her exit, smiling slightly. ‘If I’m through before you are, is there room for me to come and talk to you?’

  She wasn’t sure if he was serious or taking a gentle rise out of her.

  ‘Of course.’

  Still he didn’t move out of the way. He was undoing his front buttons now, revealing a muscular chest still brown from its last exposure to the sun.

  ‘Are you shy of me, Flower?’ he asked softly.

  ‘I... yes, I suppose I am... a little.’

  He pulled his shirt free of his trousers. ‘Let’s do something to break the ice, then.’

  His next movement was to reach for her.

  Swept into his powerful embrace for the first time since his return from America, she instinctively closed her eyes against the sight of his tall head swooping towards her. Then his lips were warm on her mouth and her mind became empty of thought as he gave her a long sensuous kiss.

  ‘Is that better?’ he asked presently, nuzzling the side of her neck, his hands sliding over her back, pressing her to him more closely.

  Her reply was a dazed wordless murmur.

  He took hold of her wrists and put her arms round his neck. Then he kissed her again, for a long time, until she forgot everything but the physical pleasure of being firmly held by strong arms while his lips moved slowly on hers.

  When he raised his head and put her away from him, she was reluctant to come down to earth.

  ‘Go and have your bath now,’ he told her, his voice husky.

  Ten minutes later, after a quick immersion in warm scented water, Flower had brushed her teeth and now was brushing her hair at the counter in her bathroom when he joined her.

  She was wearing her towelling robe, loosely sashed. He had a towel wrapped round his hips and thighs. The splendour of his visible torso, on which there was neither surplus flesh nor over-developed sinews, but only the elastic muscles and taut skin of a naturally strong and fit man, sent a tremor of pleasure through her.

  He took the brush from her hand and replaced it on the counter, sliding his arm round her waist and making her lean against him.

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to this moment for a long time,’ he said quietly.

  And then he untied the sash and opened her robe, his blue eyes glittering as he studied her naked body in the mirror, her breasts, her navel, the still-damp tangle of curls at the junction of her thighs.

  ‘Your body is as beautiful as your face,’ he murmured close to her ear as he pulled the robe off her shoulders and made enough space between them for it to slide down her arms and slip to the floor. At the same time he loosened the towel he was wearing before once more drawing her against him, her bare back against his bare chest, the curves of her small, soft behind in contact with his long hard thighs.

  She felt his pulsating virility, the hot and impatient life-force aroused by her nudity. But if the primitive male in him wanted to take her here and now, it was the civilised man who was in control. His hands, as he ran them over her in a long slow exploration were gentle. His fingertips touched her as carefully as if her tender flesh could be as easily damaged as the fragile porcelain petals on a rare piece of Chelsea she had once seen him handle.

  ‘Do you like that?’ he asked her, repeating a subtle caress.<
br />
  She could only nod and close her eyes, made oddly shy by having to watch him make love to her.

  ‘Let’s go to bed.’ With easy strength he picked her up, using one broad brown shoulder to push wide the half-open door and carry her through to the bed she had already turned down.

  By late the next day, local time, they had reached their destination, an island in the chain called the Grenadines.

  There was nothing to do there but laze in the sun, swim, snorkel and stroll the vanilla sand beaches lapped by water shading from crystal to the dark blue of the deep ocean where local fishing boats, small freighters and yachtsmen sailed the channels between the reefs.

  Flower had spent much of the flight dozing. For they hadn’t slept much the night before. Roderick’s ardour had seemed unquenchable. Over and over his desire for her had revived and he had made love yet again, every time exacting a wilder response from her. He hadn’t reminded her in words of his promise to strip from her every last inhibition, but that was what he had done.

  And now, as they looked round their bungalow, one of a small spread-out colony of bedrooms with bathrooms and verandas, she sensed that it wouldn’t be long before he did it again.

  ‘A swim first, I think, don’t you?’ he suggested.

  She nodded and started to unpack.

  Minutes later they were stepping out of their flip-flops at the water’s edge before walking into a sea which instantly washed away the fatigue of the long flight from Europe and the wait at Barbados airport before the final short hop by small plane to the island.

  The days that followed were punctuated by frequent dips in the sea, starting soon after sunrise when they had the beach to themselves, apart from a youth employed to rake up dead leaves from the machineel trees and sea grape bushes.

  After bathing they would rinse off the salt water in the open-air shower enclosure at the back of their bungalow. Usually they showered together with the result that, although they had risen early, they invariably breakfasted late, and the sheets, changed every day, were afterwards so wildly rumpled that Flower would surreptitiously straighten them before the maid came to collect them.